


Dubstep Duple

by Masu_Trout



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Family Fluff, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:40:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/pseuds/Masu_Trout
Summary: The barrier has fallen. The monsters are free. Two ghosts have a long-overdue conversation.(Or: Mettaton's a star, Napstablook's afraid, and no one can agree on what should happen to the snails.)





	Dubstep Duple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Exile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Exile/gifts).



One fine morning some time after Mettaton’s big debut, he shows back up in Napstablook’s life with a bang.

Literally—the confetti cannons were one of Alphys’s better ideas. Normally Mettaton keeps them topped off with pink glitter, but he switched out today because he knows what color Napstablook likes best. Flashes of deep royal blue rain down around them as Napstablook stares across the threshold of their house, a counterpoint to Waterfall’s eternal stillness.

“Hello,” Mettaton says, once the silence has stretched long enough to be well and truly awkward, “Surprise?”

“...Oh,” Napstablook says, and then, “Um. Thank you. That’s... a pretty cool trick.”

“Thanks.” Mettaton smiles. He has one hand on the doorway, and Napstablook is just — staring at him. They’re not crying, not even sniffling a bit, and… he supposes that’s good? He’s glad his baby cousin has gotten more confident. But he was expecting—dreading—a whole lot of tears and he’s not quite sure what to do in their absence. 

Napstablook finally seems to realize the conversation (or lack thereof) has gotten weird, because they blink and jerk to attention. “Oh, I’m sorry! I’m really, uh—I’m sorry. Would you like to come in?” Cloudy trails of nervous ectoplasm swirl within their form, punctuating the words.

None of this is right—Napstablook is nervous and teary and morbid, but they were never _shy_. Not around their family, at least. He knows Napstablook far too well for the two of them to be awkward around each other.

Or, at least, he did.

He’d never in a million years erase everything that’s happened to him since he left Waterfall, but all the same he suddenly wishes they could just—rewind. Go back to the days when they floated above Napstablook’s creaky floor together and mixed terrible amateur tunes out of cassettes of equally terrible human music they'd pulled from the trash heaps.

To his horror, Mettaton realizes he has no idea what to say. Still, he might be dead but he won’t stand for dead air, so only grins and offers his best, “of course, thank you!” as he makes his way in.

(He has to stop and pause for a moment as he steps inside, just to take it all in. He’s pretty sure he’s never actually seen his cousin’s doorway before—he always used to float through the side wall when he wanted to visit.)

Inside is just how he remembers it: barren flooring and crumbling walls, a fridge and a TV, Napstablook’s computer and audio equipment piled up in one corner and overflowing with cables and bits of machinery he's never understood the purpose of. The cracks in the walls have grown and the spiderwebs stretch further than they used to—seems Muffet’s gang are getting bolder—but otherwise nothing has changed. It’s like he’s stepped right back into the past.

Something else is wrong too. It takes him a moment to connect the dots: his cousin here, the computer sitting on the floor, tapes out and scattered across the barren room. “Blooky,” he asks, “why haven’t you packed yet?”

“Oh,” says Napstablook. They’re shrinking, now, bits of them wisping away into intangibility out of a nervousness so overwhelming Mettaton can _feel_ it resonate in his own soul. “That’s, well… I don’t think I’m going to go.”

“What.” Mettaton’s not going to get angry, he’s _not_ , but he can’t help the frustration that wells up in him. It would be so much easier if Napstablook were angry with him. 

This, though—this is just like it used to be. Mettaton was the one who would get mad, get petty, get even. He knew how to steal the show. When Blooky was upset, they would just… fade away. Lurk in the walls or down under the water, listen to their music until enough time had passed that they could slink back home and pretend they’d never really been all that bothered at all.

This isn’t fair. Napstablook always knew how to calm him down, but he could never quite figure out just how to cheer them up. He’s at a disadvantage here and he’s got no idea how to overcome it.

The first proper sentence out of his mouth is, “But why would you want to stay _here?_ ”, which probably isn’t the most thoughtful thing he’s ever said. 

This is the Underground, though: it’s small, it’s cramped, it’s dark and dreary. It’s a prison the monsters never should have been forced into in the first place. Nothing _new_ ever happens here—by the time anything washes up into the junk piles, it’s already long become old news. Books with waterlogged pages, scratched movies, broken game consoles, magazines stamped with years-old dates… He hated being trapped down below. He'd always thought _everyone_ hated it.

“Someone needs to take care of the snails.”

 _No one cares about the snails,_ Mettaton doesn’t say, because—of course Napstablook cares about the snails. Even once Mettaton had fully committed to the life of a star and the rest of the family was long gone in search of jobs that _didn’t_ involve the endless tedium of farming slow-moving little balls of slime and shell, Napstablook had never stopped watching over them. They’re quite possibly the only being in the whole Underground who cares about the snails.

Instead, he says, “I’m sure the snails will be fine. Better than ever, really, with no one making them into flour anymore.”

“Still…” Napstablook hesitates.

Mettaton’s lucky his hair’s sculpted from titanium alloy; he’d be pulling it out right now if he could. He sinks to a crouch, his new magi-mechanical joints humming as they adjust to the sudden change in position. The floor underneath him is solid wood. He’s never really missed his ability to phase before—who would, when they had lasers and LEDs and gorgeous legs to compensate—but right now he’d like nothing more than to slip through the back wall and find somewhere to sulk for a bit.

Maybe he can try it anyway. Napstablook will have to leave if there’s a gaping hole in his house, right?

He entertains the thought for a moment, tracing the grooves in the worn and creaking floorboards as Napstablook hovers anxiously overhead. Finally, he has an idea of what he wants to say, but his cousin beats him to it.

“I’m sorry,” they say, and they really do look it. Mettaton would recognize that guilt-filled expression anywhere—Napstablook finds something to feel like garbage over more days than not. “I know I’m not being very… exciting. Or interesting at all, really. But it’s probably best if I stay here—you’ve got your show to take care of, and the snails might need me.”

“So do I,” Mettaton says.

Napstablook stops. They turn their dark eyes down to look at Mettaton. “Huh?”

“I might need you too,” he says, and then: “no, that’s not right. I _do_ need you. Your music, and your cleverness, and...” He drops his gaze to the ground. His core is humming with frustration and embarrassment, and that only makes him more frustrated and embarrassed. A superstar should never be anything less than perfect. Yet here he is, crouched on his cousin’s floor and all but shaking with nerves.

 _It’s just like stage fright_ , he tries to reassure himself, , but Mettaton has never been afraid of the stage. 

Finally, he sighs. “You’re family,” he says, “my favorite cousin. I missed you.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. A few drops of soul splatter on the floor near Mettaton’s feet. By the time he looks up, Napstablook’s eyes are already overflowing with tears.

“Blooky?” Mettaton’s panicking a bit, because Napstablook was weirdly dry-eyed before and now they’re _sobbing_ and he’s not sure if this is the start of some weird awful breakdown brought on by familial abandonment and overexposure to snails. He only enjoys making his audience cry when that’s what he actually _meant_ to do. 

Napstablook shakes themself, then brushes the tears away. “I’m not upset. I’m just… I’m really happy you missed me too.” A look of embarrassment crosses their face. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it? I didn’t mean I wanted you to be sad, or... or anything like that.”

At first Mettaton isn’t quite sure what to do—normally Napstablook can’t stop crying once the tears start up. This is good, though, it’s wonderful, and he seizes the moment to pull Napstablook into a hug. Apparently he owes the human another round of thanks. He'd known they'd talked to his cousin, but not that this would be the result. “I know exactly what you mean.”

He’s never once wanted to go back to his boring old life, not on pain of a second death, but that doesn’t stop him from missing certain parts of it. His house, his journals, the flowers that grew on the riverbanks. His family.

“That’s actually what I came for,” Mettaton says.

Napstablook blinks. “Oh?”

“I'm starting a band.” There's a lot more he could tell Napstablook—the equipment he's scavenged, the gigs he already has lined up, all the songs they'll be able to play together up there on the surface—but right now the only important part is: “I need a DJ.”

It's not all that he wants to say, not by a long shot. But it's a start. He can only hope that Napstablook understands what he feels.

“ _Oh_.”

He can tell Napstablook's shocked once more, and he hurries to hold off any objections that might come out of his cousin's mouth. “It won't be just you and I, I promise, and we don't have to start big right away. Just…” He looks pleadingly at Napstablook. “Just consider it, maybe? There's no one else I'd want to have onstage with me more than you.” After a moment, he adds, “We can bring the snails.”

Napstablook's silent for a long, long time, upset or excited or something else entirely. Finally, they let out a little breath. Their body flutters in a nonexistent breeze. “Would you… would you help me pack my things, maybe?”

Mettaton can't help himself—he jumps back to his feet and wraps his cousin in a massive hug, squeezing so tight that his joints are creaking and Napstablook ends up halfway phased through him. He'd hoped, of course he'd hoped, but he hadn't been _sure_ —

“I can't promise anything, but... I'll consider it.” Softer, they add, “I've been working on some tracks lately, so… maybe you'd like to hear them?”

“I'll love them,” Mettaton promises. Napstablook's never made a bad piece of music. He's so excited he almost feels like he could float right out of his body just like he used to. Even if Napstablook doesn't want to join, even if he does nothing more than watch the snails from under the bright above-ground sun—it's enough. It's more than enough.

They're here, they're free, and they're back together again. The human world isn't going to know what hit it.


End file.
